Ho Ho Ho and a Bottle of Scotch
by GreenVelvetCurtains
Summary: What better way to spend Christmas Eve than breaking and entering your boss' home to play Secret Santa. Or should that be the Grinch? Set pre-Skyfall, but with a nod to M's bulldog.


_A/N For the purposes of this story please forget what you know about the end of Skyfall. Happy reading._ :)

* * *

The year he'd been promoted to double O, she'd given him an ashtray for Christmas. Clearly M didn't know him very well since he'd given up the filthy habit in the early nineties and forbid it in his home besides. Bond gave her a rather expensive bottle of 21 year old Macallan in return and eyed it jealously whenever he was in her office.

Twelve months later he received a revolver. On the face of it this seemed a much better gift, until he discovered it wasn't a weapon at all but rather a novelty lighter shaped like one. He still didn't smoke, and the appliances in his flat were all electric so he could even use it to light the gas. It was relegated to the back of a drawer.

In her defence, he had to concede that M was at something of a disadvantage. Whoever successfully suffered through the mid-December office party - an elite but dreadful affair where top pencil pushers mingled uneasily with seasoned killers - was rewarded with their boss's gift on the way out. It gave you time to chose something commensurate with which to reciprocate.

He gave her the bottle of 15 year old Macallan he'd bought her anyway, and suggested she sack whoever had been delegated her gift buying duties.

"I choose my own presents, Bond," she told him somewhat icily.

"Perhaps you should take it under advisement then," he ventured in reply.

For his next birthday, unsurprisingly, she didn't stretch beyond a card.

The Christmas that followed M gave him a first aid kit. His number of work-related 'accidents' that year had been abnormally high, but really, what did she expect? Getting injured was a hazard of the job. At least it was a more appropriate gift, James supposed. Proof she cared. Or possibly criticism of his being careless. He gave her a bottle of Teacher's this time. It seemed apt - and it was cheaper.

A year later he received _The Handbook of Practical Spying_. Presumably _Espionage For Dummies_ had yet to be published or she'd have given him that instead. It was her not so subtle way of showing the lingering disapproval she felt at the mess he'd made of his last assignment.

Was it a joke? Knowing M as he did, Bond didn't think it was. He went down to the local off-licence, bought the smallest, cheapest bottle he could find - India's finest molasses whisky, the label claimed - and kept the Famous Grouse he'd been planning to give her for himself.

She returned his gift to him twelve months later, unopened, with the gift tag and chintzy bow still attached. She'd just scratched out their names and switched them around. He emptied the lot over the poinsettia 3B across the hall had given him. A week later it had still refused to die.

James didn't like Christmas. He hadn't since he'd been orphaned at 11 years old. He didn't hate it any more, he just chose to ignore it as far as possible. Christmas was something other people did, though, truth be told the festive season still left him feeling tetchy.

If there was a mission to be accepted, Bond was the man to do it. It was preferable to sitting at home alone with a Chinese and a beer and dwelling on what you didn't have. Unfortunately the villains of the world seemed to take their holidays the same time as everyone else, which most years left him doing exactly that. He could have gone away somewhere himself, for sunshine and sea sand, but come December he was usually all travelled out and sitting on yet another plane for hours just wasn't on his wish list.

~007~

As fate would have it this Christmas Eve an alternative presented itself. James was summoned before M to account for the recent swath of destruction he'd left in his wake which, even by his own standards, was abnormally wide.

These little meetings, he knew from experience, almost invariably turned quickly from debriefings into bollockings. Today was no exception.

"And another thing, Bond," M was on a roll, having barely stopped to draw breath in the last five minutes, "Why is it that you are the only one of my agents incapable of returning any of the equipment supplied to you by Q branch in one piece?!"

"Collateral damage?" he volunteered, knowing full well it would do him no good to answer her back. He was there to listen and feign contrition, nothing more.

Her reaction, and it came swiftly, took the form of a particularly nasty threat: If he failed to show more diligence in future it was well within her power to refuse him his beloved Astons and reduce him to chasing bad guys in a Ford Fiesta.

"Even national security is subject to budget cuts, Bond," she pointed out for the umpteenth time. "Extravagance has no place in a recession."

"Neither," he bit back, "does a spy in a reasonably-priced car!"

On his way out, before he'd managed to slam the door, she called after him, "Don't have a strop James, it doesn't suit you."

Yes, Ma'am. Merry Christmas, Ma'am. Bitch.

How dare she threaten to take away his toys! Did she honestly think he crashed those beautiful machines for his own amusement?

A couple of hours later when he stalked into a little antiques and collectibles shop just off Regent Street he was still in a foul mood. The cheery festive music playing softly overhead didn't help the matter.

How was he supposed to perform his job properly if he was badly equipped and worrying about how many rationed bullets he was allowed to fire.

The sight of a piece of vintage Royal Doulton looking sullen and unloved in a glass display cabinet in the far corner of the room proved enough to raise his spirits. It was a near-perfect metaphor for how he felt about M just now. He knocked £15 off the dealer's asking price, handed over his credit card and left the shop feeling remarkably brighter.

The only shame was that it didn't come in pit bull instead.

~007~

At a quarter after 2 that Christmas morning he walked up the front steps of her Kensington terrace. The large holly wreath hanging on the front door was like an invitation to enter.

Bond picked the lock with ease, and keyed in the alarm code before it had a chance to bleep twice. He shut the door behind him soundlessly and let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom.

He'd be punished for certain if he was caught, regardless of the fact that he was bearing gifts. Coming here on work related matters was invasion enough, but to sneak into her home and ply his filthy trade there for personal reasons was nothing short of dishonourable.

But since she'd done no worse than verbally threaten him on previous occasions, if M did try to fire him he could always demand his written warning first. And, he reasoned, he was doing her a favour by proving her security was inadequate. The chain hadn't even been on the door for heaven's sake!

A landing light was on upstairs but the ground floor was in darkness. It didn't matter, he knew from experience exactly where he was going.

He made his way into the lounge and put the box down on the coffee table where she wouldn't miss it.

The stockings were hung, presents rested beneath the well-dressed tree, and baubles and tinsel caught the dim light as he moved through the room. The house even smelled of Christmas - fir tree, mulled wine spices, baking, roast meat. He supposed she had her family staying, three generations of M's asleep upstairs as he prowled down below.

There was a glass of something on the mantlepiece along with a mince pie waiting for Santa. Some traditions he supposed were meant to be kept, regardless of how old the grandkids were. He picked up the drink and had a taste. It was Scotch, although not the good stuff.

James sat down in one of the comfortable arm chairs, put his feet up on the table and sipped the alcohol. If this was from the bottle he'd given M last year, it was little wonder she hadn't finished it yet.

The night was unnaturally quiet for London, even at this late hour. He could hear no traffic noise, no trains rumbling past. The only sound was the soft tick of the carriage clock over his left shoulder. It was pleasantly soothing.

He was half tempted to stay where he was until she appeared in dressing gown and slippers at 5am to put the turkey in the oven. There was a chance she'd just shuffle past him - not much surprised M - and mutter 'If you wanted an invitation 007, you should have said'.

But he didn't fancy being set to work in a festive apron peeling parsnips that were destined straight for the compost any more than he did getting summarily fired.

He stared at the box, neatly wrapped in red and gold paper with a ribbon tied around it. The pre-printed sticky label complete with jolly fat Santa read 'From Father Christmas', but he suspected M would know it was from him as surely as if he had written a card himself.

He finished the whisky and took a bite out of the mince pie, throwing caution to the wind. If there was any doubt as to who had brought the gift, he'd leave her the wherewithal to analyse his fingerprints, DNA and dental impression besides.

Bond reset the downstairs alarm and shut the door with the softest click on his way out.

~007~

It could have contained an explosive device or any number of other sinister things, she knew that full well, and yet M felt no compunction in opening it immediately she found the unfamiliar box on her coffee table. Instinctively she just knew where it had come from.

James Bloody Bond.

No-one else had ever had the gall to try breaking in - if they did she would sack them on the spot. The word 'soft' immediately sprang to M's mind but she pushed it away.

How the hell had he got into her house?! Again! She'd changed the alarm code just last week to prevent this exact eventuality. She did it every month now as a matter of course. M didn't like to think what else he might know that he shouldn't. Damned spies!

Maybe next year Mother Christmas should sneak into his flat on Christmas Eve and leave him a prettily wrapped lump of coal. See how he liked it.

She turned the chunk of cold pottery over in her hands. While it was more imaginative than his usual bottle of Scotch, it was also hideous. And no doubt the reason he'd given it to her. She was the grumpy old bulldog with the mantle of England resting on her shoulders.

And just to spite him, M decided, she would put it on her desk at work for all to see and pretend to love the ghastly thing.

~007~

"Christmas present?" he enquired a touch too casually when next he stood before her desk. The beast was now M's right hand man, literally.

So that's the way he wanted to roll. "Why yes," she answered, stroking the animal affectionately. "Isn't he marvellous, Bond?" She could play it just as cool as he.

"Mmmm," he managed after a pause, the tight smile never reaching his eyes.

"Mmmm," M agreed.

She handed him the file marked 'Top Secret: 007', dismissed him with "That'll be all," and returned her attention to the papers on her desk.

When he failed to move she looked up at him questioningly, "Was there something else, Bond?"

His eyes which had been trained on the dog, flashed to hers, but his expression masked by blankness gave nothing away. _We trained you well James_, she thought to herself.

"No ma'am, nothing." He tucked the file under his arm and turned to leave.

"Try to bring the car back in one piece this time," she called as he pulled the door shut behind him.

The first working day after New Year M filed an addendum to her will regarding the figurine with her solicitor. If by some curious quirk of fate James Bond managed to outlive her, then he could have it back when she was dead.

FIN.

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_(Fyi For those of you who don't know, the 'Star in a Reasonably-Priced Car' is a feature on the programme Top Gear.)_


End file.
